


Due North

by isabella_castronovo



Category: Handsome Devil (2016)
Genre: Continuation, Eventual Romance, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Smut, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-03-23 23:27:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13798575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isabella_castronovo/pseuds/isabella_castronovo
Summary: "All I can hear in my head is your voice, and, you know, it makes me want to follow you."Wherein Conor and Ned continue to follow each other and find each other.





	1. Won’t You Tell Me What You’re Thinking Of?

**Author's Note:**

> I stumbled on Handsome Devil a couple months ago and fell absolutely in love with it. Like most of the fandom, I was disappointed by the ending Ned and Conor got, and sought to rectify it (well, that and I had all these ideas that wouldn't leave me alone, and my girlfriend encouraged me to write them out). 
> 
> This will be a collection of connected moments--they'll be arranged chronologically, but will extend over the course of a few years in the lives of Ned and Conor.
> 
> This chapter takes place a little less than a year after the film, in the middle of the first term of their senior year at Wood Hill.

The dying light casts shadows over the posters on Ned’s wall. The days are getting darker, the chill of autumn settling in. It’s Thursday, just one more day left in this damned week before he can finally sleep in again. Although, if all went according to plan, he probably wouldn’t be anyway. The things he sacrificed in the name of friendship. 

He hears heavy footsteps coming up the hall. The door swings open and Conor enters, looking as though he might collapse on the spot. He trudges over to his desk and drops his bag on the floor. Ned follows his movements, his shoulders rippling under his tshirt. His hair is damp, no doubt from the shower, and little rivulets of water have left a trail down his neck and back, making his shirt cling a little. Ned feels his stomach coil.

Conor approaches his bed and pauses, reaching down to examine the covered plate. “What’s this?”

Ned clears his throat. “You missed dinner.”

Conor turns to face him. “You did this?”

He shrugs. “Couldn’t let you starve after all.”

Conor fixes him with that blinding smile of his, his cheeks flushed. “Thanks Ned.” 

His chest tightens, and he feels his stomach dance a little. Conor really did have the most lovely smile; it always made him want to return the favor despite himself. Maybe that should worry him a little. He ignores the thought.

Conor sits on his bed and uncovers the plate, carefully setting aside the silverware Ned had managed to sneak in under his sweater. He looks up as Conor makes a noise of surprise. “You got all my favorites.”

“I mean, we have been roommates for over a year now, and you’re not exactly adventurous when it comes to the cafeteria offerings.”

Conor scoffs and shakes his head, and Ned feels his mouth quirk up at the corners. 

“Fair enough. Thank you though, really.”

Ned nods. “Don’t mention it.”

He watches as Conor tucks in eagerly, clearly starving.

“I’m surprised Pascal kept you so late. Shouldn’t he be the first one concerned about his players passing out from exhaustion?”

Conor scoffs around a mouthful of food, then swallows. “Eh, you know how he is. We’ve got a shot at the quarter-finals again this year, so he’s not wasting a minute.”

Ned rolls his eyes. “I take it practice went well?”

“Yeah, it was alright. I landed almost all of my kicks.”

“Good. Maybe he’ll lay off you for a bit then.”

Conor shakes his head. “Not a chance. If anything, he’ll be even worse than usual, on account of me being captain and all. I have to ‘set an example for the team,’ you know.”

“And here I thought being captain awarded you special privileges…”

“Aside from missing class, not really.” 

The two of them chuckle at that, and Ned shakes his head. He lets Conor eat, turning back to his algebra notes. 

His eyes rove over the pages of equations but he can’t bring himself to focus, his mind turning over the question he wants to ask. He looks at Conor, then back at his notes, then again at Conor, who catches his gaze from across the room and raises an eyebrow. Fuck it, he was going to fail the quiz tomorrow no matter what anyway. He takes a deep breath, then exhales slowly. “So, are you doing anything for your birthday?” 

He feels himself beginning to ramble, his right leg bouncing under his palm. “I know last year you went home to celebrate, but I was wondering if maybe this weekend you’d like to head into town instead? I mean, you don’t have to, obviously, I just thought--”

“Yeah, sure.”

Conor smiles at him from across the room and he can’t help but grin back, his head whirling. “Brilliant.” He feels like he’s made of air. 

Conor gets up and sets the now-empty plate and silverware on his desk, then crosses their room in a few easy strides. Ned jolts a little as Conor lazily plops down next to him on the bed, their shoulders bumping. He inhales the familiar, crisp scent of school-issued soap and Conor’s shampoo. 

“Now that that’s settled, let’s review these, yeah?” He gestures to the crinkled papers in Ned’s hands.

Ned narrows his eyes at him. “Really?” 

Conor smirks. “I know how much you _love_ quadratic equations.”

Ned snorts, but he can’t help the way his mouth quirks a little. He turns back to Conor and is struck by his gaze, his throat going dry. Conor’s eyes are soft, regarding him with an openness that fills him with warmth. He’d never noticed before just how green his eyes are, and had his lashes always been so long and full?

“Ned?”

Ned blinks and looks away, ducking his head. Crap. What was that about?

“Sorry, I spaced out for a minute.”

He can feel Conor’s eyes on him, his pulse quickening. He hears him sigh, and then startles as Conor reaches for his notes.

“We’re both going to fail at this rate…”

Ned takes a deep breath and swallows, then moves to face Conor again.

“Right. Let’s get on with it then.” 

Conor starts reciting the quadratic formula aloud. Ned knows he should be paying attention, should be concentrating on factorising the example Conor’s presented from his notes, but Conor’s smooth voice fills his head, and it’s all he can do not to close his eyes and lose himself in the tide of his thoughts.


	2. You’re the Glitter In the Darkness of My World

He eyes the mayo. Ned is looking at him expectantly. “Just try it. It’s life-changing.”

He can feel his eyes narrow, but reaches for a chip. “If I get food poisoning from this, you’re taking care of me.”

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t do that to myself. Especially not on your birthday.” Ned smiles cheekily at him and he feels his stomach jolt. 

He gingerly dips his chip in the mayo, examining it before bringing it to his mouth and taking a bite. He finishes it in one go, the tang of the mayo complementing the saltiness of the chip, perfectly crisp and not at all greasy. He grabs another, this time taking about twice as much mayo.

Ned smirks at him from across the table. “See? And you doubted me.”

He swallows. “You said it yourself, I’m not exactly an adventurous eater.” He reaches for another chip and coats it generously. “This is amazing though. Where’d you pick it up?” 

Ned’s eyes glance past his shoulder, as if he’s remembering something far-off, before darting back to meet his. “My mum used to travel a lot for work...she took me with her on most of her trips, and we ended up in Belgium once or twice. I don’t remember much of it, to be honest, but the chips were a standout.” 

The pub is vibrating around them, but Conor can still hear the wistful tone in Ned’s voice. “You never talk about your mum. It sounds like you two were close.”

Ned looks down, frowning. Conor fights the urge to run his fingers over the back of Ned’s hand where it lays splayed on the table between them. 

Ned meets his eyes. “Yeah. She was pretty amazing.”

Conor feels a pang in his chest. Ned wouldn’t dare say it out loud that he missed her, but he didn’t need to; it was written all over his face.

“The photos I have up of the Louvre are from our last trip to Paris together. Paris was her favorite city, she kept trying to convince my dad to move there.”

“Is that why you wanted to escape there?”

Ned gives him a wry smile. “Partially.”

He feels himself smiling back. “How romantic. Do you even know any French?”

Ned scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Tch, yeah, of course.”

Conor raises an eyebrow. “Really? Tell me something then.”

Ned’s eyes glint as he stares at him and opens his mouth, but then he pauses, pressing his lips together and looking down at his drink. Conor doesn’t fight the smirk that curls his lips as Ned tries to come up with a response, drumming his fingers agitatedly on the table. “Cat got your tongue?” 

Ned’s eyes snap up to glare at him. “How original.” 

Conor can’t help the laughter that bubbles up in him; it was rare he was able to best Ned in an exchange of words. He watches as Ned tries desperately to fend off a smile, ducking his head to the side. It must’ve gotten late, the pub lights had dimmed to a soft glow. Conor watches the shadows play off of Ned’s face, smoothing along his cheekbones and seeming to almost cup the strong line of his jaw. His eyes flickered in the low light. Ned had the craziest grey eyes; they always seemed to vary in color, sometimes appearing blue, other times almost silver, and still others like the sea during a storm. It made Conor’s breath catch a little whenever he found himself locked in Ned’s gaze. 

Ned turns back to him, eyes soft as the smile tugging at his lips. “Alright fine, so I can’t speak French. I could learn though.” 

Conor feels heat pool in his stomach. Ned’s whole face changed when he smiled--it became gentler, more open, his eyes crinkling a little at the corners. If he could smooth them out with his thumb....

He shakes his head, his gaze landing on the almost-empty basket of chips. “Fancy another round?”

Ned jerks his head back a little and blinks. “What?”

“The chips, Ned.”

Ned smirks. “No signs of food poisoning yet then?”

Conor rolls his eyes.

Ned twists his head and looks over his shoulder out into the pub, no doubt checking for their server. Conor’s eyes trace the long, pale column of his throat, the wide neck of his tshirt exposing the jut of his collarbones. Conor swallows, throat suddenly dry.

Over the din he hears a sharp tapping sound, nervous giggles drawing closer and closer. He turns his head to find two girls a foot away from their table. He watches as one of them, a blonde, whispers to the other while giving them a once-over. The blonde steps forward. “Hi.”

Conor’s eyes dart between her and Ned. Ned’s face draws thin. “Hi.”

She smiles, then locks eyes with Conor. “It’s gotten a little crowded. Would you lads mind if we sat with you for a bit?”

He considers her for a moment, standing there with her coy smile. His eyes dart to her friend and he finds himself already caught in her gaze, her startled eyes immediately glancing down at her phone.

He hears Ned clear his throat. “I don’t think there’s enough room for all of us.” 

Conor exhales, his eyes falling to Ned’s clenched fists resting on the table. 

He hears one of the girls make a noise of surprise. “Well...one of us could stand then. No trouble.”

He looks up, scanning the pub. “You could grab a spot at the bar, it looks like there are a few seats open.”

His eyes find the blonde again, her lips pursed. “Oh. Yeah. I suppose we could.” She frowns, turning to her friend. “Come on Ev. I don’t think we’ll be getting anywhere here.” She looks back at them and nods.

Conor’s eyes follow them as they walk off, the clacking of their heels fading into the chatter. He meets Ned’s gaze. “What was that about?”

Ned quirks his mouth. “Well I’m not the most qualified person to judge, but I’m pretty sure those two were trying to make a pass at you.”

He snorts. “You mean us.”

“No, it was definitely you.”

He cocks his head, brow furrowing. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Automatically exclude yourself.”

Ned raises an eyebrow. “Conor, really? You do have eyes right?”

He fights the urge to roll them. “I can see just fine, Ned.”

“I think you should get them checked.”

Conor stares at him. “I don’t get you.”

“I’m just being realistic. The chance that either of them came over here for me is absolute zero. Not that I wanted them to or anything, but still.”

He presses his lips together. “You don’t know that.” 

Ned rolls his eyes and shifts back in his seat. “Really Conor, no one’s going to pay me any attention when I’m sitting here with you. It’s just a fact of life.” 

Ned finds his gaze and holds it. Conor follows the slanting light over the curve of Ned’s lips. Pinpricks of heat shoot through him, little tremors of desire.

He really can’t understand why; Ned is gorgeous. And therein lies the problem.


	3. Can't Stop Thinking About Where We Are Gonna Be Years From Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More pining! Because I'm cruel like that.
> 
> Just in case it isn't clear, this chapter takes place a little over a year after last one, half-way through Ned and Conor's first year of college.

Conor sighs, running a hand over his face. He’s supposed to meet Seamus in twenty minutes and still hasn’t pulled together an outfit, which means he’s going to be late. Usually this wasn’t an issue--they’d normally grab a quick bite somewhere cheap and then crash at Seamus’s flat--but tonight Seamus had chosen some poncy new restaurant that’d just opened, on account of it being their six month anniversary. Or something. Conor hadn’t really been paying attention.

He sorts through the few “nice” clothes he’d laid out on his bed an hour earlier, mind frantic. Would the jeans be too casual? They were black, and fit well, but maybe Seamus was expecting something nicer. But were trousers too formal? He presses his lips together. _Fuck it all._ He never gave much thought to his clothes beyond comfort and color; he’d bought the jeans at Vince’s insistence when Vince had dragged him out to the shops a month ago (“They make your arse look amazing. What? Don’t give me that look!”), and the jumpers were Christmas gifts from his mum. He runs a hand through his hair. He wishes he had either one of them here right now. For a jock, Vince was surprisingly into fashion and most days looked as if he’d walked out of an ad for Brown Thomas, and his mum would at least know exactly which top and bottom to grab while rolling her eyes at his cluelessness….

He hears the door to their common area slam open off to his left. “Thought you would’ve been gone by now.” 

He inhales deeply, then turns around to find Ned leaning against his door. “Hello to you too, Ned.”

Ned quirks an eyebrow at him, then glances at the clothes on his bed. Conor watches the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“Seems like you’re having some trouble.”

“Hmm?”

Ned rolls his eyes. “Well, there’s about three different outfits laid out here, and you’re not wearing any of them.”

Conor’s heartbeat slams in his ears. _Thank Jesus he didn’t catch that._ He shrugs. “We have dinner reservations.” 

Ned half-smirks at him, clearly trying to reign in a laugh. “Do we now?”

Panic races through him. “I meant--”

“I _know_ , Conor, I was just taking the piss. Relax.” Ned holds his gaze, eyes full of concern. “You ok?”

“Yeah. Just running a bit behind is all.” He feels a twinge in his chest. He wishes he was going with Ned, wishes he was doing all of this for Ned. He imagines them sharing giddy smiles across a dimly lit table, their legs intertwined beneath it; imagines the feel of Ned’s long, knobby fingers laced in his, the soft press of Ned’s lips against his own…. _don’t._ He clenches his fists and bites the inside of his cheek. _Just don’t._

Ned folds his arms over his chest, studying Conor’s choices once more. “How about these then?” He gestures to one of the jumpers--a navy blue V-neck--and the jeans.

Conor nods and moves to change. He hears Ned settle into his desk chair across the room. He finishes pulling the jumper over his head and tugs it down at the hem, then turns to face Ned. “This ok?”

Ned’s eyes rove over him. A shiver runs from the back of his neck down to his toes, the shocks spreading through his limbs. Ned clears his throat. “Yeah, I think so. Just...fix your hair a bit.”

Conor pulls his fingers through his hair. “Better?”

“Hold on.” Ned gets up, crossing the room with hurried steps. He presses close to him, reaching up. Conor feels his heart stop, chest constricting and throat painfully dry. His blood surges through his veins, making his ears ring. He fights the urge to close his eyes as Ned musses with his hair, the quick brush of his fingers sending waves of electricity through him. 

Ned pulls back and quirks a smile at his handiwork. “There.”

Conor exhales slowly, his heart slamming against his ribcage and stomach swirling violently. “Thanks Ned,” he somehow manages to croak out.

Ned waves him off. “You’re already five minutes late, by the way.”

 _Fuck._ He shoves his boots on and grabs his jacket, sprinting out of his room and for the front door. 

“Have fun,” he hears Ned sing-song behind him as the door bangs shut. 

_Bastard._ He grins to himself, then falters, his stomach still sloshing around anxiously, chest tight. He pushes the button for the lift and leans against the wall, closing his eyes. He’s barely been gone a minute and he’s already wishing he was back in their room listening to Ned’s commentary about his day, spending another lazy Thursday evening in with just the two of them. He heaves a ragged sigh. He thought he’d be over this by now, thought for sure that his attraction to Ned was merely superficial, bred out of close quarters and familiarity. Yet, two years later and here he was, still pining over his best friend with no end in sight. For the first few months of his and Seamus’s relationship he’d had some relief, and he’d thrown himself into it with gusto. He realizes now though that he’d mistaken a distraction for true interest. It was getting harder and harder to tamp down the flood of emotions that erupted whenever he thought about Ned. Or looked at him. Or spent even a second in his presence…. _fucking hell, Conor. Drop it already._ He shakes his head. 

The lift pings, doors opening noisily. He steps inside, hits the button for their dorm lobby and checks his phone for the time. _Jesus fucking Christ._ Seamus was going to murder him.


	4. Thank You For This Bitter Knowledge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even more pining, this time with Ned! This chapter takes place a few months after the last one.
> 
> A quick note on the time period, since I've included what's now considered a technological relic (though I'll keep using an iPod Classic until mine dies and Amazon stops selling them): since the time period of the film is deliberately ambiguous, I've set it as having occurred post 2010. The time period for this and future chapters are gradually approaching present-day (2018). So in the context of the story, iPods are on their way out, but they're still a thing.

The clattering and banging of pots subsides, and he can hear footsteps growing closer. There’s a knock on his door. 

“Yeah?”

Conor pokes his head in, eyes bright. “Kitchen’s yours.”

“Thanks.”

Conor opens the door a little wider and leans against the frame, shifting his weight between his feet. 

“What?”

“Is it alright if we--”

“Conor, you asked me about this yesterday. I already told you, it’s fine.”

He holds Ned’s gaze. “You’re sure?”

Ned sighs, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “ _Yes._ Go enjoy your movie.”

Conor’s face relaxes into a soft smile. “Thanks Ned.”

His heart drums away in his ears. “Mm-hmm.”

Conor pulls the door softly shut. Ned sighs again, setting down his laptop and pushing it closed. He’s starving, but he hadn’t wanted to be rude. It was rare that Conor offered to cook even for _him_ , nevermind Seamus; he must’ve been planning this dinner for weeks.

He gets up and pulls the door open and is greeted by the sight of Seamus and Conor already cuddled up on the couch together, Seamus’s arm thrown over Conor’s shoulders. Seamus glances in his direction and nods. Conor smiles at him again, then turns his gaze to the tv.

He feels a pang in his chest, his veins coursing with longing. _Don’t look at them. Just go fix your dinner and be done with it._ He trudges into the kitchen and pokes around in the fridge. He decides on a breakfast roll and grabs the sausage, rashers, and tomato. 

Conor laughs, clear and warm, and he can feel the vibrations down to the soles of his feet. He looks up, taking in the grin that’s spread over Conor’s cheeks, the softness of his features. Ned shakes his head. Damn this open kitchen. It had seemed nice when they both chose the flat, but now it just served to distract him. He hears Seamus’s low chuckle, and then a shared wave of laughter erupts from them both. He looks up again, taking in the way Conor leans into Seamus and rests his head on his shoulder, eyes full of mirth and that same beaming smile stretched across his face. Another jolt of longing rushes through him, and he feels his eyes prickle. He squeezes them shut and inhales slowly. Jesus, what the hell is getting into him? He shakes his head again and turns back to the sausage and rashers sizzling away on the stove. Best just to make everything quickly and head back to his room. 

He finishes cooking the meat and arranges the remaining ingredients on the countertop. He grabs a plate, leaves the pan in the sink, and retreats back to his room, the door falling shut behind him. He could wash everything later. Or tomorrow, depending on when Seamus left. He settles down on his bed and digs into his meal, trying not to inhale it and failing miserably. He faintly hears Conor’s voice and ignores it, finishing his roll and setting the plate aside on his nightstand. He opens his laptop, screen glowing to life, and decides to get started on his short essay response for his Reading Gender & Sexuality course. It wasn’t due till next week, but he could use the extra time. 

A shock of muffled laughter cuts through the silence, and he can hear their murmuring through the door. _Fuck this._ He closes his laptop, grabs his worn copy of _When You Are Engulfed in Flames_ off his dresser, and pops in his earbuds, turning up the volume on his iPod as high as it can go. He’d refused to get one on principle--the world would have to pry his collection of vinyl and old CDs from his cold, dead hands--but Conor had gotten him one for his birthday last year (“We’re not going to have enough room in our flat for your vinyl collection,” he’d said with a half-smile), so it stayed. Conor had even gone all sentimental on him and had it engraved with “Happy Birthday Ned” in soft cursive along the back; he runs his thumb across it. He’d never admit it to Conor, but it was pretty convenient to have all of his music in one easily accessible place. He puts it on shuffle and dives into his book, hands smoothing down the creased pages.

*

He’s lost in his reading, time escaping him, when the unassuming opening chords of “Think For a Minute” flow into him, and he loses his focus on the sentence he’s half-way through. He closes his eyes and he’s back in that secret, dimly-lit room at Wood Hill, the scent of old wood and dust filling up his nose and throat. His hideaway, the one that became his _and_ Conor’s, something he never could’ve predicted. He hears them now, strumming away on the old guitars that he’d discovered there, his hands clumsily fingering the chords to match Conor’s confident melody. 

It’d been almost three years since then; almost three years of him and Conor living together, first at Wood Hill and now at UCD. He’d been so wary of him back then, had tried so hard not to let his walls crumble, truly believing he’d leave Wood Hill without a single friend. How he managed to end up with a best mate instead, he still didn’t know, but not getting expelled from Wood Hill ended up being the best thing that could’ve happened to him. His world would’ve been very different without Conor beside him these last few years; true to his own sentimental words, they had become each other’s team. He’d begrudgingly gained a new appreciation for rugby--at least, any rugby game Conor was in, anyway--as a result of going to every single one of Conor’s games during their senior year, and all of UCD’s home games last year. In turn, Conor had been his sounding board for all of his essays and writing ideas in general. He was a bit protective of his work still, but he knew Conor wouldn’t hesitate to give him honest and thoughtful feedback. Conor still didn’t talk even half as much as Ned did, but it made him treasure his input all the more, especially since Conor seemed to take his role as Ned’s editor of sorts very seriously. No matter how crammed his schedule was, or how exhausted he’d be from training, he always made time for Ned. Even now, with him dating Seamus, Conor still made sure to carve out moments for just the two of them.

He smiles, warmth bubbling up in him, then settles into a frown, his chest heavy. The last two years had brought him a happiness and sense of belonging he’d never before experienced, yes, but they’d also been muddled and fraught with _wanting_ Conor, with fighting himself at every turn. He hadn’t acknowledged it at first; it had seemed wholly alien to him, the idea of crushing on someone, much less his best friend and roommate. He’d tried to deny it, write it off as the result of his excitement over actually having a friend, of sharing not only a space but practically an entire life with said friend, and the near-constant contact that ensued. But plausible deniability only held up for so long. He’d started noticing _things_ \--the way his heart raced when Conor smiled at him, the suppleness of Conor’s body as he moved across the rugby pitch, how full and inviting Conor’s lips were, how often he found himself looking for excuses to touch Conor, how his whole world seemed to shift when he found himself lost in Conor’s gaze--things that even he couldn’t ascribe to friendship, despite his best efforts. 

He burned with it now, every nerve ending in his body crackling at the sight of Conor’s smile, at the sound of his voice, at his mere presence, constantly surrounding him and invading his thoughts. He had to fight a shiver anytime Conor said his name, had to focus on keeping his breaths steady when they’d collapse on the couch together for their weekly movie night, had to resist his body’s every instinct to reach for him and pull him close. He’d lost track of every gaze that he’d turned from for fear of letting his own eyes linger too long, heart ramming against his ribcage. 

Not that it mattered anyway; Conor had started dating Seamus last October--almost a year ago--and had seemingly been smitten ever since. Ned still can’t figure out why, Seamus is so opposite to everything he thought Conor would find attractive--blond, arrogant, hardly interested in music, flashy, and more than a little pretentious. Aside from a shared interest in rugby, they barely had anything in common... 

He sighs deeply. He should be happy for Conor--and to an extent he is; if anyone deserved to be lucky in love, it was definitely Conor, after all the shite he’d been through--and yet. He can’t help wishing it was him curled up next to Conor on the couch right now, sharing soft smiles and laughter and body heat. It was the most exquisite torture, but he didn’t dare speak a word of it. He’d rather be Conor’s best mate than be nothing to him at all, the mere thought of it striking panic through him, stomach roiling and chest constricting. He’d imagined it once or twice, confessing to Conor, but the possible fallout seemed too great a risk. They’d lived together for so long, and barring a few times when they were both exhausted, he’d never gotten the sense that Conor saw him as anything but his best mate. 

He swallows, his throat tight. Conor had other close friends--Vince and Brian for sure, and some of their other rugby mates--and Seamus, and at least one parent who gave a damn about him, even if the other was an intolerant shitehawk. If they were to ever part ways, Conor would be fine; he’d have others to fall back on, losing Ned would be nothing. Not that he’d fall apart completely without Conor--he’d be alright in time, he’d managed to survive the last nineteen years almost entirely on his own, and, all things considered, he hadn’t suffered too much for it. But for him, there was no one else like Conor, and he doubted there ever would be again. He would be ok eventually, but there would always be a space inside him that couldn’t be filled, an ache that couldn’t be sated. Conor meant the world to him, and he wasn’t ready to surrender that, not even to himself. He had almost lost Conor once over his own impulsive, reckless feelings, and he’d be damned if he let it happen again. 

He swallows down the lump in his throat and breathes deeply, trying to dispel his thoughts. He shuts his iPod and takes out his earbuds. Sleep was the only way to get his mind to quiet. He closes his book and gets up to set it back on his dresser, then settles back down into bed, switching off his lamp and drawing his sheets around him. He buries his face into his pillow and closes his eyes, willing exhaustion to take him. 

*

A strange creaking pulls him from nothingness. Eyes still shut, he listens closely, registering the low screech as his door being opened. Footsteps fall heavy in the silence, coming to a stop somewhere in front of him. He hears light clattering to his right--the plate being taken off his nightstand, most likely--and then a hushed intake of breath. 

“Goodnight Ned.” Conor’s voice is whisper-soft. 

Heat floods through him, his stomach vibrating. Conor’s footsteps fall further away, and he hears the soft click of the door as it shuts behind him.


	5. With My Feelings On Fire, Guess I’m a Bad Liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again! Things are finally starting to move forward...

“Hiya lads! The usual, I assume?”

“Are we really that predictable already, Lynn?” Vince asks, and Conor can’t help but shoot a look across the table at Brian, who catches it and breaks into a grin, snorting a laugh. Vince throws him a mock-glare, then flashes a grin of his own, brown eyes twinkling. “I’m just saying, I’d like to think I’m more exciting than that.”

Conor snorts. “Vince Taylor, international man of mystery.”

“And don’t you forget it, mate,” Vince winks back at him. To his right, Lynn looks equally amused. She’d quickly gotten used to their antics when the three of them started coming to Curly’s on the regular, a little less than a year ago, and she’d made no secret of the fact that they were her favorite customers. 

“Let’s not keep the lovely lady waiting, lads.” Brian turns to Lynn with an apologetic smile. “The usual it is, Lynn.”

“A gent as always, Brian.” She returns his smile easily, and Conor resists the urge to roll his eyes. It was also no secret that she had a glad eye for Brian, something which he and Vince loved to tease him about. Conor glances at Vince, who’s already smirking, watching Lynn run off to put in their order. 

“Seriously mate, you should just cash in on that already. She’s a ride, you know.”

Conor chuckles at that. Brian scoffs at both of them.

“Unlike you, I don’t attempt to bed the first person I lay eyes on. Some of us aren’t that hard up.” Vince shoves his shoulder, almost knocking Brian out of their booth, and Conor gives himself over to the laughter he’d been trying to tamp down.

He inhales and exhales slowly, trying to compose himself. “Behave, you two. Or they’ll throw us out. S’not even five yet.”

Vince adopts a look of pure innocence, which reduces the three of them to giddy laughter. It takes Brian a minute to catch his breath, voice raspy. “Besides, if things went sour between us, I’d probably never be allowed past the door ever again. Couldn’t do that to you lads.”

“You say that as if we wouldn’t come without you.”

“But of course you wouldn’t.”

Vince smiles sweetly at Brian and pats his head. “Oh, the things you think. Conor would turn up every Friday like clockwork; he’s addicted to their chips.”

Conor shakes his head, trying to hide his smile. “No, that’d be you, Vin.”

Vince flashes him a sly grin. “Exactly.” Brian looks between them, feigning hurt. “Glad to know I mean so much to you two.”

Vince shrugs. “Eh, you’re alright I suppose.” 

Brian opens his mouth to retort but stops as Lynn slides their plates down in front of them with practised ease. “Enjoy, lads!” She smiles at them and throws a wink at Brian, and Conor can feel himself matching Vince’s wicked smirk as she walks off. 

“So, when’s the wedding?”

“Oh feck off Vince,” Brian mutters into his sandwich.

Conor shakes his head at them, tucking into his burger. It’d been a while since they’d gotten to do this, what with the season having been murder this year, and he didn’t realize how much he’d missed it--just the three of them kicking around, having the craic. It almost made him dread the thought of training starting up again in a few months. 

From his periphery he catches Vince looking over at him and then pointedly locking eyes with Brian, whose gaze flickers to him and then back to Vince. The look in Vince’s eyes makes Conor’s stomach twist a little in warning. Vince looks thoughtful, as if he’s battling with himself over something. Conor closes his eyes and tries to focus on his meal. 

He hears Vince inhale deeply. “So Conor, you planning on asking Ned out anytime soon?” 

Conor nearly chokes on his drink. He takes a deep breath. “This again? You need to let it go. I’m not interested--”

“Oh for Chrissakes, that’s bollix and you know it. I’ve seen teenagers be more subtle about their feelings than you.”

It had been an ongoing battle between them as of late, the question of Ned. Vince had asked him the same thing immediately after he and Seamus had broken up a month ago. As if suddenly being out of a relationship meant he was ready to dive straight into another one, and with his best mate at that. As if it were the easiest thing in the world. 

“You’ve been watching too many romcoms, Vince. Ned and I are just mates.”

“No, you, me, and Brian are ‘just mates.’ I’m not fucking blind, I can tell the difference.”

Conor bites the inside of his cheek. “Ned and I have known each other longer, so of course there’s a difference.” 

“Really? I’ve known you now for the better part of a year and I can say with absolute certainty that you’ve never looked at me the way I’ve seen you look at Ned, and we’ve been through some shite together.”

His fingers twitch, and he furrows his brow. Their situations were completely different. Who the hell was Vince to act like he knew anything about him and Ned? “Yeah, but it’s not the same as what Ned and I have been through together--”

Vince rolls his eyes. “Oh for fuck’s sake. Brian, a little help here please?”

He feels his palms begin to itch, the urge to punch something flaring violently. Ned wasn’t just some guy; he was his best friend, the first person to see Conor for who he really was and embrace him completely. Ned had found him when all he’d wanted was to disappear; he’d stood by him when he faced down his demons, and had been by his side ever since. “There’s nothing to help, because there is _nothing_ going on between me and Ned. I don’t know why you keep insisting there is, but there isn’t, so please, just _fuck off_ about it already.”

Vince glares at him, hands clenched into fists on the table. If his stomach weren’t in his throat, Conor would laugh at the banality of it all. A spark of adrenaline zips through him as Brian sighs. 

“Look, Conor…I get that you think that if you ignore them, these feelings will go away, but honestly, it seems to be the reverse. I know we haven’t been mates for long--a year is hardly enough for me to be so presumptuous as to say that I _know_ you--but I have to agree with Vince here. ”

Conor locks eyes with him, his heart banging away in his ears. He feels pinned to the spot by Brian’s gaze, blue eyes keen and knowing. Vince had been insistent and unrelenting about Conor’s feelings for Ned, but not Brian; throughout all of their arguments over it he’d just sat there, quietly observing. 

Conor opens his mouth to respond but his mind stalls, floundering for words. Brian’s unwavering stare dissects him. He feels himself deflating, all the fight slowly draining out of him. He casts his eyes down at his plate, then looks up at Brian. “What would you do?”

“Hmm?”

“What would you do, if it was you that fell for this one here?” Conor cocks his head toward Vince.

Brian doesn’t miss a beat. “I’d tell him.”

“You’d tell him?” 

“I’d tell him, for sure. No use torturing myself over it.” Vince looks at Brian, an amused smirk marring the disbelief on his face. 

Conor presses on, voice incredulous. “Really? You’d risk everything on it?”

“He’s my best mate, yeah? I would.”

“Why?”

“Cause even if nothing came of it--even if he didn’t feel the same way--it’d be worth it. Not having to hide anymore. Not having to carry that pain.” Brian breathes in, then continues on, voice thoughtful. “Maybe it’d be weird for a while, but, if he’s really my best mate, I think he’d understand.”

He mulls that over a moment. In the few times he allowed himself to entertain the idea of confessing to Ned, he never dared to even imagine any sort of happy ending. “What if he didn’t?”

“Conor, there is no universe in which that is even the _slightest_ possibility. This is Ned we’re talking about here. If he was crazy enough to jump out of a moving car in his attempt to find you to bring you back for a high school rugby game after you two had a falling out, he’s not gonna run off if you tell him how you truly feel.”

Wait. How the fuck did _Brian_ know about that? “But--”

“ _Conor_.” 

Brian’s gaze flashes with intensity. Then he blinks, and his eyes soften, voice dropping to a low hum. 

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re the only one.”

Conor’s pulse races dizzyingly, his head whirling. “What do you mean?”

Brian sighs, exasperated. “Just _talk_ to him, Conor.” 

Conor studies Brian, then casts his eyes downward and closes them for a moment. Brian knew about what had happened between him and Ned at Wood Hill. Brian was insinuating that his feelings weren’t one-sided. There was no way…he would’ve _had_ to have talked to Ned….

He can feel his leg shaking under the table. He breathes in, then looks back up at them and gives a little nod. 

Vince nods back at him, eyes solemn, and then all at once a grin stretches over his face again. “Good show. Now then, onto more important matters...Conor, are you ever going to touch those chips? Because I’d gladly take them off your hands…”

Conor exhales. He and Brian both roll their eyes and all three of them laugh, the sound vibrating with warmth. Vince reaches over and steals a few chips from Conor’s plate, expertly avoiding his half-hearted move to swat him away. “So, you’re never gonna believe what that gobshite Crumley was droning on about today. Jaysus, I fucking hate him, he makes anthropology so unbearably dull...”

Conor shakes his head and chuckles. He feels a knee bump against his under the table and looks up. He meets Brian’s gaze and Brian gives him a little nod, smiling. Conor feels himself nodding back. 

Vince continues babbling on while Brian shakes his head in sympathy. Conor follows their movements, losing himself in the steady hum of their conversation and the comforting buzz of the pub around them. He breathes in deep. His stomach is still swirling, fingers tapping out a formless rhythm on the tabletop, but he feels a little lighter, somehow.


	6. A Kiss I Stole From Your Mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to post this a day early since I've been excited for you all to read it! This is the first scene I wrote, which ended up spawning this entire fic, so it's very near and dear to my heart. I hope you enjoy it! ♥

The door slams. Conor kicks off his trainers by their welcome mat (his idea, which Ned gave him a ridiculous amount of shit for) and tosses his parka into the closet. He takes a few steps into the living room and in one fluid motion collapses onto the floor in front of the couch, dragging a pillow down with him.

He shifts onto his back and closes his eyes, letting out a deep sigh. The bottoms of his trackies are soaked, but he has no intention of moving even an inch from his current position for at least the next hour. His mind is spinning, replaying his conversation with Brian for the hundredth time. He’d spent the last few days mulling over Brian’s advice, trying to reconcile the conviction and promise behind those words with the tornado of nerves that ransacked him every time he so much as thought about Ned. He’d been trying to find moments over the past few days to confess--had almost blurted it out in a frenzied rush over dinner the night before, when Ned had smiled at him like the world was ending over some stupid joke he’d made--but it never felt like the “right” time to bring it up. 

He lifts a hand to his head and massages his temples, trying to relieve the building pressure there. He feels exhausted, a phantom weight pinning him to the floor. Rain drums against the window, reverberating in the silence of the apartment. He tries to match his breaths to its rhythm, tries to anchor himself in the sound, but even that doesn’t calm the buzzing in his head. He breathes deeply, concentrating again on the noises that surround him. Dimly he hears footsteps making their way up the hall, then slowing to a stop in front of the door. There’s the slide and click of a key in the lock, and then all at once Ned is there, cursing under his breath and shuffling around. Conor hears the door bang shut carelessly, then the unmistakable thud of Ned’s boots, bag, and umbrella hitting the floor and the rustling of a coat being taken off and stowed away. 

The floorboards shift and vibrate under him as Ned walks in, muttering to himself, only to pause as he reaches the couch. Conor opens his eyes, taking in Ned’s damp hair and generally rumpled appearance; he must’ve gotten caught in a particularly nasty gust of rain. He feels himself smiling at the thought, but bites it down just in time for Ned to meet his gaze.

Ned gives him a once over, and Conor can see the questions forming in his eyes. “Lo.”

“Hey.”

“Everything alright?”

“Eh. Long day.”

“I figured, you look knackered. Mind if I join you?”

“Go ahead.”

Ned grabs another pillow off the couch and settles next to him on the floor. They’re lying on their backs, shoulders almost touching, and Conor can’t help the way his breath hitches slightly at their proximity.

“So. What’s eating ya?”

He tries to ignore the warmth he can feel radiating off of Ned, tries not to think about how if he just stretches the fingers in his left hand, they’d brush up against the downy skin of Ned’s arm. 

“Just a lot going on. I’ve a couple exams left, and now with the season over, I really have to focus.”

He catches Ned’s slight nod out of the corner of his eye. 

“I hear that. It’s been hell the last few weeks. Especially for you….”

Conor sighs and rolls his eyes. “Ned.”

“I’m just saying. Lots of...changes.”

Conor lays quiet and stares at the ceiling, willing Ned not to bring up Seamus. Ned had tried to talk to him about their break-up after Conor initially told him the news, but Conor had shrugged him off and said he was fine. He knew Ned was unconvinced; he’d been making little comments here and there during their conversations over the last few weeks, trying to gently prod Conor into bringing it up himself, but Conor managed to shut down every attempt. He hadn’t missed Seamus all that much, or at all really, if he was being honest; breaking up had been a relief. And a new kind of terrifying--he was now fully alone to grapple with the weight of his feelings. He couldn’t distract himself anymore.

He listens to the sound of the rain, now a steady metronome of low taps against the window, and counts each of Ned’s breaths as they ease out, somehow in tandem with the falling drops. It’s an almost imperceptible sound, whisper-like, and he feels utterly mad, losing himself in the quiet song.

“So….have you heard from Seamus at all since...you know.”

Conor’s heart jumps, his pulse rattling in his throat. “No. Why would I?”

“Dunno, just thought maybe he’d change his mind. Try to apologize, or something.”

Conor snorts. “ _He’s_ the one who broke up with _me_ , remember?”

“So? People can change their minds, Conor. It’s possible he didn’t know what he wanted, his reasoning seemed off. I mean, really, ‘different priorities?’ _That’s_ the line he gave? Sounds suspect to me.”

Conor closes his eyes and prays, with everything in him, for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. His pulse bangs about in his ears, and he can feel its vicious tempo in every part of his body, crescendoing unbearably. “ _Just talk to him, Conor_ ,” Brian’s voice echoes in his head, cutting through the noise. _Do it._ He opens his eyes and breathes deep, steeling his resolve.

“That’s not why.”

“Hmm?”

“Why we broke up. That’s not why.”

From the corner of his eye, Conor sees Ned’s head turn toward him. A moment of silence elapses, and he continues.

“It was….it was because he could tell that I had feelings for someone else. He didn’t want to keep going through the motions knowing I was thinking about someone else when I was with him.”

Ned turns on his side to fully face Conor. Conor can’t bring himself to meet his gaze, not yet.

“Oh.”

Ned pauses, then inhales slowly, breath measured and heavy. “Conor...if you don’t mind me asking, who….who is it, then? That you have feelings for.”

Conor’s whole body hums, blood singing in his ears. He realizes, belatedly, that he’s trembling. He clenches his hands, willing the tremors to stop, to no avail. _Fuck._ His mind is swimming. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, searching for a strength he’s never known. Opening his eyes again, he shifts slowly onto his side, facing Ned. He keeps his eyes down. He’s afraid of what he might do if he looks at Ned; they’re close enough that he can feel the soft rush of air across his face every time Ned breathes. A breath passes, and then another. 

He looks up, finally meeting Ned’s gaze, and is shaken at what he finds there. Ned’s eyes are open, bright and searching and….hopeful? Conor feels all the air leave his lungs; like he’s drowning, like he’s losing his mind. He wants to say something, wants to break the silence somehow, but his tongue feels soldered into his jaw, his throat tight. He swallows. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, he’s never been good with words. But touch, he knows. Touch he can trust. He lifts his hand and slowly brings it to cup Ned’s cheek, fingertips ghosting over his skin. Ned closes his eyes, and Conor can feel the racing of Ned’s pulse under his touch. Ned leans into him and fuck it, there’s no going back now, he might as well try.

He leans forward and closes the distance between them, heart beating so fast he’s afraid it might burst. He presses his lips to Ned’s, soft and unsure, and he can feel himself trembling again. Ned presses back for one glorious moment, then pulls away slightly, the warmth of his breath fanning over Conor’s lips. Conor feels the weight of a hand in his hair, Ned’s fingers lightly caressing his scalp, and it’s all the confirmation he needs. He kisses Ned again, this time firm and sure, and tries to communicate the full weight of his longing, his adoration, into the kiss. He needs Ned to know that he’s certain, that if he resists this feeling any longer, it may kill him; he’s been bitterly fighting it for the last three years. Ned presses back with ardor, body arching up into his own, and Conor thinks that he just might die of this instead.

They lay there for what feels like an eternity, stealing each other’s breaths and curling up into each other. Ned runs his fingertips reverently over Conor’s arm and back, drawing zig-zags on his shoulders and bicep, making little patterns all over. Conor lightly presses his forehead into Ned’s. His thumb strokes Ned’s cheek in soft circles, then moves to languidly drag itself across Ned’s lower lip. With his other hand Conor gently scrapes his nails down Ned’s chest, pushing up the hem of his shirt to trace lazy waves on his bare stomach, teasingly gliding over his ribcage.

Conor pulls his head back slowly and meets Ned’s gaze once more, his breath catching in his throat. Ned’s eyes are tender and clear, a dazzling quicksilver in the dying light. There’s an easy smile on his face, one that Conor’s only caught glimpses of before, honest and unguarded. He’s drowning again, but this time there’s no undertow, no current; he can breathe. Conor feels his own mouth move to mirror Ned’s, a breathy laugh escaping his lips before he can tamp it down. He’s flying, soaring, and even if he burns up, even if his wings melt, it won’t matter. Ned’s laugh echoes his own, and Conor knows he’s smiling his secret smile, the one he only has for Ned.

He pulls Ned flush against him, wrapping him in his arms. He buries his face in Ned’s hair as Ned tucks his head into Conor’s neck, pressing soft kisses against the sensitive skin there. Conor doesn’t know how long they lay there, mapping the growing shadows that blanket the apartment in darkness, with nothing between them but skin and bones and the quiet music of the rain and their breaths intermingling. 

He feels more than hears the hushed words Ned murmurs against his throat, breathless and full of wonder. “Well. Took us long enough, yeah?”

Conor can’t help the grin that overtakes his face, his cheeks growing sore from smiling so much at once. He knows he must look completely mad, but for once he finds that he doesn’t give a single fuck. He pulls back to face Ned again and kisses him long and deep, content to let his hands and lips do the talking. There would be time for sweet nothings and platitudes and awkward, clumsy confessions later. Right now though, they had this, and Conor didn’t want it to ever stop.


	7. Give Me a Taste of What It’s Like to Be Next to You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are starting to heat up...

Ned hums to himself as he moves around the kitchen, setting a large pot on the stove and digging around in the cabinets for a cutting board. He grabs his phone out of his pocket and checks the time. _Conor’ll be home in an hour._ His stomach churns and his fingers tingle a little, his limbs like jelly. He thought that would subside, but even after a week of dating Conor, he’s still a bundle of nerves. He sighs, exhaling deeply. After that shifting fest of a first night together, they’d gone right back to how they were before, perhaps with even more distance between them. The only difference was that this time, the tension between them was palpable. They each knew the other’s true feelings, and Conor was certainly being less shy about letting himself really _look_ at Ned, but aside from that, they were careful and hesitant. Every time he moved to touch Conor, even just to brush a strand of hair out of his eyes or get his attention by tapping his shoulder, he couldn’t bring himself to follow through, unsure of how Conor would react. He felt stalled, trapped by some nameless fear. 

He takes a deep breath and holds it, then gradually exhales, trying to calm his racing pulse. The thing no one ever mentions about dating your best friend is that it’s weird as _fuck_ in the beginning. It sounds completely counterintuitive--like it should be so easy, like everything should magically fall into place--but that, Ned was discovering, is pure bullshit. He shakes his head and starts slicing the onions for the sauce. _Best not to dwell on things if you want to have dinner ready at a decent hour._

*

Conor takes a breath, the jog up the three flights of stairs leaving him a little winded. Usually he could sprint up them two steps at a time and barely break a sweat, but he’d gone for a run on his way home from class. He’d needed to clear his head.

He pushes the stairwell door open and slows his walk, his heart pounding in his chest. He pauses in front of their door and runs a hand over his face. He prays that he’s not sweaty and flushed from the run….except he is, and _what the fuck_? As if Ned hasn’t spent the last three years living with him. As if Ned hasn’t attended almost every rugby game he’s played in since that first senior cup at Wood Hill. As if Ned hasn’t _hugged_ him, on several occasions, when he was covered in grass and dirt and sweating through his uniform. _Jesus fuck, Conor, get a grip._

He inhales loudly and closes his eyes, holding his breath for a few seconds before drawing it out slowly. He fumbles around in his duffel for his keys before retrieving them. His hand trembles slightly as he presses his key into the lock and turns. It clicks, and he twists the knob and pushes the door open.

*

Ned looks up from the table as he lays down a spoon. Conor strides through the door, setting his bag down and unzipping his jacket. He catches Ned’s eye and smiles a little. “Hey.”

Ned feels himself smiling back, warmth spreading in his chest. “Hey.” He wants to walk over and pull Conor close and bury his face in his neck, but his legs won’t move, he’s rooted to the spot. He watches as Conor hangs up his jacket, then kneels down to unlace his runners, his trackies pulling taut over his thighs. He swallows, throat suddenly dry. _That just isn’t fair._ He feels heat creeping up the back of his neck and spreading onto his cheeks. He drops his gaze and finishes setting the table, eyes fixed on the silverware. He prays that Conor hasn’t noticed.

“You alright? Your face is all flushed.”

 _Fuck._ So much for that.

“M’fine, it’s just a bit warm in here. Been cooking and all.”

“I can tell, it smells amazing.” Conor stands and levels him with another soft smile. His head spins a little.

“Thanks.” He feels his cheeks heat up again and almost scowls despite himself. He’d been cooking for them since they moved into their flat not four months ago, and Conor was routinely generous with his praise; this wasn’t anything new. Really now…

He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Food’s ready. So, uh...”

Conor nods. “Yeah, I’ll go change. Give me five minutes.”

He watches Conor disappear into his room, then collapses into his chair. What the _hell_? He was being more skittish now than he ever was before. He holds his head in his hands and breathes deeply, counting the seconds between each exhalation. He could do this. They were _dating_ , for fuck’s sake.

*

Conor begins to strip as soon as he hears the door slam shut, kicking off his trackies and pulling his shirt over his head. He’s burning all over, the exertion from his run combining with the sight of Ned watching him hungrily sending waves of electricity through him, leaving him breathless. He pulls on a clean pair of trackies and an old faded tshirt. He sighs, combing a hand through his hair.

He opens his door to find Ned sitting at the table, head in his hands. A sharp ache twists in his gut and he moves on instinct, going to stand behind Ned. He lays his hands on Ned’s shoulders and begins massaging his neck and back, rolling his thumbs in soft circles. He hears Ned gasp a little and stills his hands, only for Ned to lean back into him. “Why’d you stop?”

Conor chews his bottom lip. “I should’ve asked first.”

Ned turns sideways in his chair and faces him, eyes calm but questioning. They look almost blue under the fluorescents. Conor’s breath catches in his throat.

“Can I kiss you?”

Ned furrows his brow. “Oh, so now you’re asking permission?”

Well. That wasn’t the answer he was expecting. Fuck. He ducks his head to the side and takes a step back. “You’re right. I’ve messed this up already, haven’t I. I’m sor--”

Ned grabs his wrist and pulls him back, moving to stand in front of him. “Conor, relax. I was joking.” 

Conor risks a glance at Ned, eyes now clouded with worry. Conor sighs. He has no fucking clue what he’s doing. With Seamus he dove right in, barely thinking. But Ned isn’t Seamus; he doesn’t want to rush things, or risk scaring Ned off. He’s craved this for so long, the last thing he wants to do now is ruin it before it even has a real chance; Ned means far too much to him. He shakily takes a breath.

Ned slides his hand down and laces their fingers together. “Hey. Look at me. We’re ok, yeah?”

Conor meets his gaze. “It’s just...I don’t…I’ve never done this before.”

Ned raises an eyebrow. “You and Seamus were together for almost a year…”

Conor shakes his head. “Not that. Not the whole relationship part. I mean...this. _Us_.” He’s talking nonsense now, the words sounding garbled and fuzzy to his own ears, and really he should just shut up. He’s no good at this. 

Ned’s mouth quirks a little, and he squeezes his hand. “Yeah, well. Neither have I. I’ve never...there hasn’t been...ah, fuck.” He can feel Ned’s pulse racing, frissions of nervous energy coursing through them both. Ned looks down and takes a deep breath, then meets Conor’s eyes again.

“I’ve never had a best mate before, much less _this_. So. You...you’re the first, and I…” He trails off, lowering his eyes.

Conor can’t fight the smile that overtakes him, relief flooding through him. “Yeah. Me too.” _He understands._

Ned looks up and grants him a tender smile. “Christ. What a couple of eejits we are.” 

He chuckles at that, shaking his head a little. Ned squeezes his hand again. “You can, by the way.”

Conor furrows his brow. “Huh?”

“Your question, from before. You can kiss me. If you want.”

Conor smiles, sliding his fingers out of Ned’s and snaking his arm around his waist. “Positive?”

Ned rolls his eyes. “Yes.” 

Conor pulls Ned flush against him, their bodies aligning, and cups Ned’s face with his other hand. He strokes Ned’s cheek, then lightly runs his thumb over Ned’s lips. Ned kisses it while holding his gaze, making his breath hitch. His pulse thrums in his ears and his stomach swirls with anticipation, warmth flooding through him. 

He runs his fingertips over Ned’s jaw, then threads them in his hair. He closes the distance between them, noses brushing, and presses his lips firmly against Ned’s, his eyes sliding closed.

*

Conor’s kissing him, one hand buried in his hair and an arm wrapped around his waist, lips insistent and warm against his. They’re pressed up against each other, and Ned can feel the full weight of Conor’s body on his, the heat and solidity of it. He feels delirious, every nerve in him pulsing with euphoria and want.

Conor’s kissing him, and it’s glorious. _Why the hell did it take us this long?_

He pulls back, panting, and locks eyes with Conor, whose pupils are blown wide. He runs his fingers up and down Conor’s back. “You don’t have to ask anymore, you know. To touch me, I mean.”

“You sure?”

He nods. Conor stares at him. “What if you don’t want it?”

“Then I’ll tell you.” He takes a deep breath, weighing his thoughts, and feels his face heat up. “To be honest though, I don’t see that happening. I always want your hands on me…” He turns his head and lowers his eyes, heart racing. _I just said that out loud._

Conor angles his head and nibbles at Ned’s ear, breathing into it. “Oh?” Ned feels a tremor run through him; Conor’s voice is rough and deep. He bites lightly at Ned’s earlobe, then kisses the spot beneath it, slowly making his way down Ned’s neck. Ned sucks in a breath when Conor bites at the hollow of his throat, then gasps as Conor maps his collarbones with his tongue. He digs his fingers into Conor’s back and leans back a little to give him more access. Conor makes a low noise in his throat and bites softly at his shoulder. 

Ned runs his fingers down Conor’s spine and slips his hands under his shirt, dragging his nails against Conor’s skin. Conor pulls away, then crushes their lips together again, each kiss more heated than the last. Conor kisses him open-mouthed and their tongues meet, hot and wet. Ned thrusts up against him with fervor, and he gasps at the contact. Ned pulls at Conor’s bottom lip with his teeth, then traces his mouth with his tongue. Conor pushes him against the kitchen table, and all at once he remembers where they are and why. He pulls back, breathing heavily. “The pasta’s probably cold by now…”

Conor blinks at him, breathing ragged, then smirks wickedly. “Mm, guess I’ll just have to eat you then.” He bites and sucks at Ned’s neck again and Ned laughs, trying to squirm out of his embrace. He wants this, _Jesus_ does he want this, but he can feel his stomach beginning to gnaw at him. 

Conor presses a kiss to his pulse, then looks at him with an amused smile, eyes dancing. “Alright, alright, I guess we should probably eat.”

Ned scoffs, but he can’t fight the grin that stretches across his face. He feels weightless, his heart exploding in his chest.


	8. Living for Your Every Move

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get even more heated and shameless headcanons abound. This is the smuttiest chapter I'll write for this series, so apologies to anyone wanting more. I'm almost done with this story, just another chapter or two to go.

“Oh come _on,_ you two. I didn’t drag you out here to have you sit on your arses and stare at each other all night like a couple of lovesick schoolgirls.”

Ned rolls his eyes. “Feck off, Vince. I already told you, we don’t dance.”

From across the table Vince narrows his eyes at him and scoffs. “You mean _you_ don’t dance. Conor on the other hand is quite capable.”

Conor snorts. “We both know that’s a lie.”

Vince grins at him. “I said you were capable. I never said you were good.”

The two of them have a laugh at that, and Ned can feel the tremors from where Conor’s pressed up against his side. He shakes his head and takes a sip of his pint, but he can’t fight his grin. He’d only been out to the clubs with Vince and Conor twice before and Vince was correct; Conor, for all his grace and dexterity on the pitch, was not much of a dancer. Although, it’s not like what happened at the clubs really counted as _dancing;_ as long as Conor moved his hips the right way, he’d be fine. They’d be flush against each other, bodies moving in tandem, slick and warm...Ned feels his face heat up at the thought.

Conor snickers, nudging his shoulder. “What’s got you so flustered all of a sudden?”

Their eyes meet and he gulps. “Nothing. Must be the alcohol.”

Conor raises an eyebrow and opens his mouth to retort but pauses as Brian slides into the seat across from him.

“Fucking finally! I was wondering when you were planning on showing up. I did the honors of covering the first round.” Vince claps Brian on the shoulder and slides a pint toward him.

“Sorry lads, traffic was murder.” He tilts his head toward Vince. “Least we’ll have the car going back though. Like hell I’m taking the bus on a Saturday night.” He looks between the three of them and notices Ned pointedly staring down at his glass as Conor leans into him. “I see you’ve failed to get them out on the floor.”

Vince rolls his eyes. “They’re being particularly stubborn.”

Brian smirks behind his glass. “Get Conor another pint then. I’m sure that’ll loosen him up.”

Conor shoots him a glare. “No thanks, I’m good.” Ned chuckles and lightly elbows him in the side. “You know, that might not be such a bad idea. Get him another round, will you, Vince?”

Conor turns to him, eyes narrowed. “I thought you said you don’t dance.”

Ned gives him a wry smile. “I don’t. But it’s awfully entertaining to watch you stumble around out there.” _Plus you get handsy when you’re drunk._

Conor stares at him cooly, eyes unreadable. “Alright then, challenge accepted.”

He hooks an arm around Ned’s midsection and pushes back from his barstool, his other arm coming to wrap around Ned’s waist as Ned is pulled off his own stool, yelping. “What the hell Conor?!”

“You said it’s entertaining to watch me stumble around out there. I thought it might be even more entertaining for you to experience it firsthand.”

“Fuck no! Let me go, I’m not setting foot out there.”

Conor grins into Ned’s neck. “Sorry love.” Ned tries to wriggle out of Conor’s hold, but his grip is like iron. He pulls Ned against him and breathes softly into his ear. “Come on. One dance.”

The back of his neck prickles and he goes still, his heart pounding away. _Fuck him, that just isn’t fair._ Ned inhales deeply and closes his eyes, trying to ignore the smirks on Brian and Vince’s faces. _Fuck them too, the bastards._ “Fine. Just one though.”

He can feel Conor’s smile against his neck as he relaxes his hold. The soft kiss that Conor presses there sends little jolts of electricity through him, which double as Conor slides their fingers together and moves in front of him. Ned follows the arc of his shoulders through his tshirt, every muscle etched out. _Huh. His shirts aren’t usually so tight._ He swallows. “You’re a dirty cheat, you know.” Conor looks over his shoulder and flashes a him wicked grin, gazing at him through his lashes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Ned rolls his eyes as Conor pulls him forward. “Come on. Let’s go before they change the song.”

*

Conor smirks. It worked like a charm.

He’d initially rejected Vince’s idea to go clubbing. Ned isn’t a huge fan of crowds, and it certainly isn’t his favorite thing to do either; unlike Vince, he’s not much a fan of dancing. He’d only gone along with him at the beginning of first year to find hook-ups, and then whenever Seamus insisted on dragging him out while they were dating. He much preferred the bar scene. Or, better yet, staying in and watching Netflix. (Ned likes to tease him about being boring, but he’s never bored when they’re together.) 

But the more he thought about it, the more enticing it became. Ned had gotten dragged out along with him once or twice during first year, so it wasn’t like he was unfamiliar with the scene or completely unwilling to go. And the idea of them pressed up against each other, hands roving all over, bodies moving as one to a vibrating bass…

Well. He supposes he can’t be blamed for taking advantage of the opportunity.

He guides Ned out toward the middle of the floor, weaving through the crowd. He turns to face Ned, their hands still linked. Ned stares back at him but doesn’t move, his mouth drawn into a thin line. Conor squeezes his hand, then gently pulls Ned to him, sliding his arms around his waist. Conor feels Ned’s hands move up his arms, stopping to rest hesitantly on his biceps. He tries not to frown as Ned pushes back a little to put some distance between them. They’ve been together a little over month now and neither of them has been particularly forward with public displays of affection, but that wasn’t quite the reaction he’d been hoping for. He sighs softly. _Don’t push him. If he wants more he’ll come to you, he has so far._

The steady, driving bass of “Wild” floods the room. Conor watches as Ned sways with a little more purpose and moves his head to the beat, sliding his hands down to grasp Conor’s hips. Conor leans in and presses a kiss against Ned’s pulse, then trails a few more soft kisses down his neck. He can feel Ned’s heart racing, and his stomach twists. 

“Hey. You alright?”

He feels Ned nod against him. “Yeah, I’m grand.”

“You sure? I only asked for one dance, we can stop...”

Ned pulls back a little to face him, the red and blue of the club lights flickering over his face. “This is new. Not bad new, just...different.” He lowers his gaze, his face cast in a prismatic glow against the darkness of the club. Conor resists the urge to kiss him. “It’s surreal, really. Being here, doing this with you...it’s--”

“Wild?”

Ned scoffs at him and rolls his eyes, but he settles into a grin. “Yes, Conor, you’re driving me wild.”

Conor pulls him close and kisses him senseless. _Well. So much for self-restraint._ Ned stills in his arms, but before he can panic, Ned drags his hands through Conor’s hair and pulls, thrusting their hips together. _Oh fuck._

*

He hadn’t meant to do that, honestly, he’d only intended to return the kiss. But fuck if Conor wasn’t warm and distracting and _right there,_ arms tight around him and staring at him as if he wanted to devour him whole. It stirred something deep in his gut, a frenzied heat flooding him. He grinds his hips against Conor’s with intent and closes his eyes, anchoring himself in their kiss. Conor gasps, pulling away slightly with a quiet “Fuck” that Ned feels more than hears. It sets his whole body alight. He thrusts their hips together again and presses an open-mouthed kiss to the corner of Conor’s lips, moving his body back and forth in tandem with the soaring chorus. He loses himself in the music, mouthing the lyrics against Conor’s throat.

He feels Conor’s hands slide into the back pockets of his jeans and squeeze, their hips rolling together in continued synchronicity with the bassline. He’s dimly aware of his surroundings, of the mass of writhing bodies around them and the stale tang of alcohol in the air, but none of it truly registers, his mind hazy. He can feel them both getting hard, the friction sending waves of feverish heat through him, every nerve in him thrumming. Conor bites at his bottom lip and pulls it between his teeth, then captures his mouth in a searing kiss, their tongues sliding together. Ned pulls at his hair again, then drags his nails down Conor’s neck and back, pulling him impossibly closer. It’s not enough. _Should I? Conor might kill me, but..._

He turns abruptly, grinding his arse into Conor’s hips, and can’t help but smirk at the hiss it pulls from him. “Christ,” Conor pants into his ear, breathless and hoarse. “What were you saying earlier about me being a dirty cheat?”

*

Vince drags a hand over his eyes as he spots Ned and Conor out on the dance floor. “Fuck me. That’s the last time I take them anywhere.”

Brian snorts out a laugh. “Need I remind you that this whole outing was entirely your idea?”

“Fuck off. It’s not like I could’ve predicted that this would happen! I thought they’d make a joke out of it, like they usually do.”

Brian raises an eyebrow at him, smirking dubiously. “Really? They’ve been practically attached at the mouth since they started dating. You really thought they’d be able to control themselves?”

Vince furrows his brow. “They’ve only been like that when we’ve been at their flat, and even then, not really.”

“Yeah well, I guess Conor was feeling bold tonight. And Ned’s hardly one to back down from a challenge, even if he likes to pretend otherwise.”

Vince sighs. He scans the crowd, then downs the rest of his pint. “Come on then.”

“Hmm?”

“You know what they say. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. We might as well, it wouldn’t do for Conor to be the only one getting a ride tonight.”

Brian rolls his eyes. “One track mind.”

Vince flashes him a megawatt grin. “Hey, at least I know myself. And lucky me, I’ve got my pick of the lot.” He saunters off onto the dance floor, disappearing into the sea of gyrating bodies.

Brian sighs, then drains his pint. “The things I do for friendship.”


	9. Take Me Out and We'll Carry Each Other Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, for a small dose of angst. I blame Conor.
> 
> Apologies for any inaccuracies with sailing terms and the length of time it takes to actually get to some of the places I mentioned. I have exactly zero experience with sailing and also with the makeup and distance of the eastern Irish coastline, so I did the best I could when consulting Google.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! ♥

Ned burrows deeper into his jacket, the wind lashing against him. It’s July, sure, but July in Ireland is hardly anywhere near tropical, and being out on the water the temperature drops down a few more frigid degrees. He takes in Conor standing at the prow, his back to him in a light sweater and beanie. Ned shivers. _How the hell is he managing to stay warm?_

Conor had been adamant about taking him sailing this summer, going so far as to spend a good portion of June fixing up the boat. For all that it had been wasting away, it hadn’t required as much rehabilitation as Conor had feared. Ned had accompanied him to the docks a few times and done what he could to pitch in, though he felt like he’d been more of a nuisance than anything. Still, it had all been worth it when Conor had started the engine and guided them safely out of Dublin Port, his eyes alight and an easy smile stretched across his face as the wind tousled his hair. Ned hadn’t seen him that carefree since the night they’d first kissed, all starry-eyed and breathless. It made his chest swell. 

Conor was a natural, moving around the boat with an ease and grace that captivated Ned even moreso than his usual finesse out on the pitch. Conor had told him once that to him, sailing had felt like flying; watching him today, Ned could swear that’s exactly what he had been doing, his steps light and footing sure. They’d been on the water for two hours now, coasting along gently until Conor had decided to drop anchor here, a few miles off of Bray. Conor had deftly navigated a few sandbars and the choppy swells they’d encountered earlier, grey waters churning in their wake.

Ned closes his eyes and breathes deep, trying to steady himself despite the boat’s endless bobbing. _Well, that just makes it worse._ He opens his eyes again and studies Conor, who’s turned to look out over the side of the boat, profile silhouetted against the overcast sky. His eyes are faraway, out mining the depths of the dull waters surrounding them. Ned feels a twinge in his chest. He knows that look all too well, its quiet hiding a racing mind.

*

The last time he’d been out on the boat it was sunny, the breeze a welcome relief on one of the rare hottest days on record.

His dad had surprised him, letting him drive the boat out of Dublin and halfways up to Dun Laoghaire. He remembers the rush of it all, the wind whipping pleasantly around him as he steered it safely away from shore, the dazzling green coastline fading further and further from view.

Once they were about a mile out his dad had retreated onto the deck to enjoy the weather, and when he’d finally come inside to take over steering, he’d beamed proudly at him. Conor had felt himself flush with contentment then, buoyed by a sense of euphoria that rose up in him like a fountain.

They stayed out for a few hours, chatting to each other and savoring the day, the cerulean waters calm and glittering around them. He remembers laughing so much that his sides had hurt, his breath burning in his lungs.

It had been perfect, really. He supposes it was inevitable then, that it wouldn’t--couldn’t--last.

He hears shuffling to his left, breaking his reverie. He can feel Ned’s eyes on him, no doubt questioning as always.

Ned’s arms encircle his waist from behind, his face pressed against his shoulder. Conor sighs, relaxing into the embrace. It amazes him still, how they can communicate with gestures, with touch. How sometimes Ned seems to know exactly what he needs without him ever saying it out loud. He lightly grasps Ned’s right hand and brings it to his lips, pressing them against Ned’s knuckles.

“You’re cold.” He turns in Ned’s arms, facing him. Ned raises an eyebrow.

“I’m still trying to figure out how you aren’t. S’not like we’re in the tropics here. And the rain isn’t helping any.”

Conor smiles, pulling Ned in closer. “It’s barely a dry rain.”

Ned rolls his eyes. “Still.”

“You have lived here your whole life, right?”

Ned buries his face in Conor’s neck, mumbling softly. “Shut up. S’cold.”

Conor chuckles at that and gently squeezes him tighter. He buries his nose in Ned’s hair and closes his eyes, inhaling the sharpness of the salty air mixed with Ned’s scent. The boat rocks slightly.

He sighs. He can faintly hear the steady rhythm of Ned’s pulse mirroring his own, can feel the slight expansion of Ned’s chest against his as he inhales. Dampness hangs around them like a shroud, seeping into his bones. It’s not sunny, and there isn’t an easy laughter bubbling in his chest, but there’s no place else he’d rather be. 

He wonders what his dad would say if he were here right now; he can imagine the shock of betrayal in those bright blue eyes, disgust twisting his features into a fierce scowl... 

“Stop that.”

“What?”

“Whatever it is you’re thinking so loudly about. S’almost like I can hear you in my head.”

Conor grins a little, remembering the twang of guitar strings and two frustratingly indistinguishable voices. “You trying to follow me again?”

Ned pulls his head back and dramatically rolls his eyes. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you.”

“You’ve yet to say anything cheesier, surprisingly.” Well, except for his whole “it’s my team if you’re playing on it” speech, but Conor had rather liked that. It still makes him smile to think of it.

Ned shoves at him. “Shut up. I don’t remember you making any snide comments back then.”

“That’s because I was actually trying to rehearse my part. Unlike some people.”

“It’s not my fault you’re distracting.”

Conor chuckles at that. “Oh? Am I now?”

Ned’s mouth thins, his face solemn. “Yeah well, with that shrill voice and terrible haircut, it’s hard to take you seriously.”

Conor doubles over with laughter, burying his face in Ned’s neck. He can feel Ned’s shoulders trembling in mirth, his breath coming out in short, spasming gasps. Conor breathes slowly, trying to contain himself. He can’t fight his grin when his eyes find Ned’s, still bright with mischief.

Ned holds his gaze, the corners of his mouth turned up in the ghost of a smile. “Seriously though. What were you thinking so hard on before?”

He feels the smile slip from his face. “Nothing really.”

“ _Conor._ ”

“It’s not important.”

Ned’s eyes soften. “You don’t have to carry it alone, you know. Whatever it is, I’m here, love.” Conor’s breath catches on the endearment, nine months still new. He feels Ned slide their fingers together and squeeze gently. He swallows down the lump in his throat.

“It’s just...I was thinking about my dad.”

Understanding sparks in Ned’s eyes. “ _Oh._ ” There’s an edge to Ned’s voice, a familiar old bitterness creeping in.

Conor looks away. “Yeah.”

He feels Ned squeeze his hands again, imploring him to continue.

“I was imagining what’d happen if he found out about this.” His dad knows they’re together; Conor had told his parents one night over dinner when he’d gone home for Christmas, barely a month and a half into their relationship and completely unable to restrain himself. His mum had gone quiet and avoided him for the rest of the evening, but she told him the next morning that all she wanted was for him to be happy, and if Ned made him happy, then she would support him (“It’s going to be an adjustment, but...I love you, Conor. That’s really all that matters.”). His dad on the other hand…

“Have you spoken to him at all since winter break?” 

_Stop reading my mind, Ned._ “No. I tried calling once or twice, but he never picked up.”

It had crushed him at the time. Despite all the anger he’d been swallowing since his departure from St. Bart’s, a part of him had remained hopeful that someday, somehow, his dad would come around. A heaviness settles into his chest. It seemed utterly futile now, that small, stupid hope.

He feels Ned squeeze his hands again, the touch grounding him.

“You never told me exactly what happened…” Ned’s voice is soft, but Conor can’t bring himself to meet his eyes.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

Ned sighs loudly. “Conor... _please_.”

He meets Ned’s gaze, grey and unwavering. It’s strange. He doesn’t want Ned to hate his dad; he can’t even bring _himself_ to hate him, despite everything. He inhales deeply, eyes squeezing shut. He counts to three in his head and exhales slowly. When he opens his eyes again, Ned is still staring at him, brows furrowed in concern.

“He didn’t believe me at first, I had to repeat myself. Then he started going off, saying how no son of his was a queer. He thought I was going through a phase when I tried to come out to him the first time…”

“That was right before you came to Wood Hill, yeah?”

He nods, throat tight. “It was a couple days after I’d gotten called into the headmaster’s office for fighting. He’d sat me down like usual and asked me to tell him what was wrong, what was going on, if there was any way he could help.” He swallows, eyes prickling. “He looked so helpless, Ned, and I just...I couldn’t keep lying to him. So I told him. He...didn’t take it well.”

Conor can still remember the look on his father’s face, like someone had punched him in the gut. “He didn’t believe me then either, though he didn’t yell at least. Just told me that it wasn’t possible, that I wasn’t his son.”

 _That_ had nearly broken him. For all his life he had adored his father, had felt as though he could tell him anything. Even though he knew his dad probably wouldn’t be thrilled about his sexuality, he never expected to be abandoned like that. They’d barely spoken after, and Conor had spent the summer leading up to Wood Hill either barricaded in his room or out cruising in Dublin, trying desperately to fill the void.

“He started drinking after that.” 

Conor swallows, the taste of bile in his throat. He hears Ned draw in a breath.

“Conor, it’s not your fault.” Ned pulls him closer, eyes piercing and voice full of conviction. “You know that right? It’s not.”

He sighs. “Yeah, I know.” He knows, of course he does. He had used it as a barb every time his mum tried to make excuses for his dad, tried so hard to get her to admit that the man was just being pathetic and selfish. And yet….and yet. On his bad days, he can’t help but feel the insistent tug of guilt like a knife in his gut.

*

The boat is still rocking unsteadily beneath them, but Ned barely feels it. Conor had never told him about what had happened with his dad, only that things between them were pretty dismal. He feels a throb in his chest. Conor had been carrying this with him for years and never said a word. _And you never thought to ask him, you fucking gobshite._

He gets it, now. Why Lindy always seemed to carry a lingering despair in her eyes, the same one Conor’s sometimes held. Why there was always a slight tremor in her voice whenever she spoke to him. He had mistaken it for uneasiness, for distrust. He realizes now that he’d been projecting, once again so caught up in his own internal monologue that he’d managed to completely misread the situation. _Way to go, Ned._ He feels, not for the first time, just a little bit unworthy of the boy in his arms. 

A strong gust of wind crashes against them. “Jesus fucking Christ!” He burrows into Conor’s chest. He’s overcome by the frenetic pace of Conor’s heart as it thrums in surround sound under his ear. He can feel the slow, shaky breath Conor takes, as if to steady himself.

“We should probably head back.” Conor’s voice is hoarse, as if each word had to be pried from his throat. Ned’s stomach sinks. For all his complaining, he’d wanted this to be a celebratory day for Conor, one that’d raise his spirits a little. _So much for that._

“No it’s fine! We can stay out here a while longer.”

Conor runs a hand through Ned’s hair and gently tugs his head up, their eyes meeting. “Ned, you’re freezing.”

“I’m fine.” 

Conor narrows his eyes. “ _Really?_ ”

Alright, so lying through his teeth after using Conor as a windshield admittedly wasn’t his best idea, but still. He needs to salvage this somehow.

“I’ll just go below deck for a bit and warm up.” He pushes off of Conor and slides his fingers down Conor’s arms, resting them lightly over the backs of Conor’s hands.

Conor studies him for moment, then sighs deeply, eyes sliding closed. “Fine. But I’m still moving us a little further north. With the way the winds are, we’re better off heading back now.”

Ned nods. “Whatever you say, captain.” Conor’s mouth quirks a little, their eyes meeting. _That’s a start, at least._

Conor leans forward and presses a soft kiss to his lips. “Go on now.”

Ned rolls his eyes and turns on his heel. “Don’t go getting us lost!” He glances over his shoulder in time to see Conor flipping him the bird. _Yeah, that’s better._

*

Ned wakes to the feeling of something soft brushing his cheek, his head buzzing and woozy. He leans into the touch.

“Hey love.” Conor’s voice is hushed. “Time to wake up. We’re a few miles away from home.”

Panic seizes him, shooting from his stomach to his head, and he bolts upright. “Wha--? _Shite_.” He doesn’t remember falling asleep, he’d only meant to rest his eyes a little. “Conor, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to doze off like that--”

Conor’s thumb brushes over Ned’s lips and his words die in his throat. Conor’s eyes are unreadable, but not unkind. “S’ok. We got up pretty early this morning, I figured you could use the rest.”

Ned shakes his head vigorously, immediately regretting it as his vision swims in time with the boat’s rocking. “Please, you’re the one who’s been doing all the work. I’ve been lazing around, as per usual.”

Conor smiles a little at that. “You’re right. Maybe I’ll have you drive the boat back so I can have a quick kip.”

Ned snorts. “I didn’t realize you wanted to reenact _Titanic_ so badly. Shall I be Rose and you Jack then?”

Conor collapses against Ned’s shoulder, bright laughter tumbling out of him in waves. Ned grins into Conor’s hair. He closes his eyes and focuses on the sound, relishes its timbre and the way it envelopes them in the small space. They’re curled up in each other and Ned can’t help but feel like they’re the only ones in the world right now. He sighs, pressing a kiss to the top of Conor’s head, his chest tight with feeling. Conor’s breathing slows, the last tremors of his laughter petering out. He rests his head against Ned’s shoulder and peers up at him, eyes bright.

“I’d offer to draw you like one of my French girls, but we both know I can’t draw for bollocks.”

Ned chuckles. “You’ve also never had any girls, French or otherwise.”

Conor grins at him. “Feck off.” His voice is light.

Ned smiles and runs his fingers through Conor’s hair, his breath hitching. He still can’t believe it sometimes, that this is real and not another one of his elaborate, desperate dreams. He reverently traces Conor’s jaw, his pulse a steady beat in his ears. Conor stares back at him, eyes full of adoration. _Jesus, I’m so gone._ He inhales slowly.

“Conor, about earlier...thank you.”

Conor blinks up at him in confusion. “For what?”

“For telling me. About your dad. I’m sorry I never asked before. I can’t imagine what it’s been like for you, having to carry that inside all this time.”

Conor shifts up into a sitting position, then faces him again. “It’s alright. It’s not like there’s anything I can do about it anyway. He clearly doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

Ned feels something in him stir, hot and prickling in his veins. “Well, it’s his loss.” He takes Conor’s hands into his own and traces the lines of his palms, his eyes never leaving Conor’s. “He has no idea what he’s missing out on.”

Conor chuckles softly, ducking his head. “You’re such a sap.”

Ned brings one of Conor’s hands to his lips and presses a kiss into the center of his palm. “For you? Always.”

Conor beams at him, a soft flush coloring his cheeks. He leans forward and closes the scant distance between them, his lips meeting Ned’s in a searing kiss. Ned can’t help smiling into it, warmth flooding through him. _Yup. Worth it._


End file.
